the sun in your eyes
by lydiamartins
Summary: And it went from an aching amount of nothing to an overwhelming amount of this.-—Lydia Martin, through the years; slight StilesLydia, implied JacksonLydia.


**word count:** 1,666

**dedication: **mltnet challenge on tumblr; week one, day one: favorite character—lydia martin, from teen wolf. i'm sorry this sucks, this is so short too, more of a drabble than a oneshot.

* * *

_the sun in your eyes_

::

_the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight,_  
_drunk and driven by a devil's hunger_  
—bottom of the river, delta rae

* * *

Once upon a time—if you wish to reduce her story to a fairytale, that is up to you, but this is not a fairytale—there is a girl with strawberry blond tresses and dull green eyes, who always wears flowery dresses and whose voice is either too shrill or too condescending. In a town of Beacon Hills, she is a nobody for eternity, and then suddenly a somebody—though not who she truly wishes to be.

And it went from an aching amount of nothing to an overwhelming amount of this, and perhaps, that was what destroyed her in the end.

* * *

The first time they meet, he is ten and she is nine.

Mother's assembled a small get-together of some sort; it's an odd conglomeration of people, ranging from the elitists of Beacon Hills society to the new sheriff's family. A light breeze brushes in through the deep humidity settling in the air, the sallow looking grass parched from the heat waves.

Lydia perches herself upon the mahogany-colored chair and crosses her legs, oversized, yet fashionable, sunglasses barely staying on the bridge of her nose; she pushes them back up every now and then and hopes that nobody notices. She's wearing this floor-length black lace gown, a Flagship Exclusive from Saks, and hopes that everybody notices her off-white heels.

There are a collection of children on the playground, but they are children, that's what they are. "And who are you supposed to be?" She looks down at him, condescendingly, a rather difficult task when he's two inches taller than her.

"I'm Stiles," he greets with a wide grin.

Lydia only rolls her eyes, "Stiles—that's your name? That's a really weird name." Maybe it's some sort of joke? Because normal people don't have names like Stiles, and she knows his last name is Stilinski already, and Stiles Stilinski doesn't sound normal at all. Which is really strange because Beacon Hills is the most normal town she knows, and the arrival of unusual people could possibly mess that all up.

"So's yours."

She scowls, deciding that the two of them could never possibly be friends, unless he apologized profusely, preferably with Saks coupons, because of how rude he is, "Lydia's a perfectly normally name, I'll have you know. I'm named after that Brazilian supermodel who raised millions of dollars for a Breast Cancer charity, and an amateur scientist. What's Stiles known for?"

"See, that's the thing," he continues to grin, and quite frankly, it's really annoying, "I have a unique name, so people aren't going to judge me on what other people who've had my name did, but if anybody has my name in the future, they'll judge it on me."

She raises an eyebrow, "That made absolutely no sense. Now, if you'll excuse me, and even if you won't, I'm going to go do my homework."

* * *

_Wolves. _Freaking werewolves in Beacon Hills.

And perhaps the arrival of supernatural creatures into what had once been a relatively normal town is what changed her.

* * *

He comes bursting through the door on a Monday night, face flustered and words flying away at a mile a minute—nothing unusual for Stiles. "Everything's almost ready, well actually, not, because Kira was kidnapped and Scott's going after her and I can't find either Alison or Isaac, and Derek's just being stupidly cryptic like usual so—oh."

It's then when he looks away from her face and upon the situation. "Right," he mutters. "Jackson." And promptly runs out the door.

Lydia takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of her nose, and runs out after him.

* * *

She saves somebody's life that night—

Not saving somebody's reputation at high school, but an actual life—those two random kids will have lives now, because of her; they'll go to Beacon High School and leave the small town, and maybe come back, and they'll fall in and out of love, or maybe not, but there's this gratifying feeling inside of her, because for once, Lydia means something to everybody else.

They respect her, not because of her popularity, but because she's intelligent, and that's important, and maybe this could be the last time where she'll hide herself under layers of makeup and stupidity, because it feels nice to be respected. There's a buzz from her iPhone then, the message somewhat expected, but it doesn't diminish the pain all at once—

jackson [7:56]: we're done.  
lydia [7:58]: ?  
jackson [7:59]: i'm serious this time.  
lydia [8:01]: well okay then  
jackson [8:02]: i'm trying to drop the dead weight in my life and you're pretty high on that list  
lydia [8:04]: okay.

She's not really okay, but Jackson can't know that this affects her, because she's not weak, she's not the weak teenager who fell in love too quickly and too deeply; Lydia doesn't want that to be her, even if it is. Stiles stares at her for a moment; maybe he's not okay too, maybe they're the ones who are best at hiding themselves; "Nothing much," she answers the question lingering in the air. "I'll just have to find a new Prom King."

* * *

And then it's over, all in due time. High school was meant to be the time of their lives, and perhaps it had been, but there had been more deaths and more pain than anything else, and when the COLUMBIA ACCEPTANCE letter comes into the mail, Lydia only thinks twice, then shoves her thoughts aside, before leaving Beacon Hills.

* * *

Alison gets engaged on a Sunday—they're barely out of high school, but Lydia has to admit that there's nobody quite like Scott McCall who's suited for her best friend.

So, she tries to forget about the fact that they're all too young to fall in love, to believe that they've found the one that they wish to spend the rest of their lives with—or maybe that's just her—and is genuinely happy for them.

She leaves the engagement ceremony early, a bouquet of thick flowers and a bag of Bath and Body Works coupons clutched between her frail fingers, and ends up back at her old house. It's empty, of course, and there's still the FOR SALE in bright red colors sign upon the lawn; the Martins' house had never been spectacular, but it had been home for seventeen years, and it's hard to let go of.

There had been something about them that's impossible—whether it's malignant or benign, she's yet to decide, but as much as Lydia tries to deny it, she knows that it's the first of the two. So, when he shows up at her door two and a half years later, she slams the door in his face—almost. Except she can't really do that, because then he'll know how much he still sort of means to her, and perhaps she should have completely moved on by now, but there's something undeniable about the power of your first love. "Jackson," she greets stiffly. "How's London been?"

* * *

Lydia's in New York when she gets the invitation—

It's in gold lettering, and declares _We formally invite you to the wedding of Scott McCall and Alison Argent _and it makes her pause for a moment—she's lost almost all contact with Beacon Hills, and perhaps it's for the best, but maybe not, because Beacon Hills used to be her home; they were their own little wolf pack, their own family as their own families started dying out, one by one.

Technically, she makes it to the wedding, but stops at the doorstep.

She sees Scott and Alison standing at the altar: oh, and they are happy, so happy, but even from a distance, she sees the way that Beacon Hills has changed; it's a small reception, perhaps twenty or so people, but half of them are out-of-state. There's Mr. Argent and Mrs. McCall and the Sheriff and _him_—they hadn't talked since she had decided for the two of them that a long-distance relationship wouldn't work and had said all the wrong words at all the wrong times—but it's different.

Lydia stops at the doorstep and walks quickly in the opposite direction, desperately hoping that she didn't attract any attention—_for once in my life, _she thinks to herself—and looks back into the vast expanse of the parking lot for her car, which seems to blend into all the others. "You know, I thought the bride was the one who's supposed to have cold feet."

"Leave me alone, Stiles," and maybe for once, he'll actually listen to her; she hopes he does, because she's not a child anymore, a girl who runs with the wolves—Lydia wants to be normal, she wants to be normal so badly, and she's spent years trying to be anything but that, but what's wrong with being normal and ordinary? Normal and ordinary people are safe.

Normal and ordinary people don't watch their friends die like dominos, and she's not just going to stand here, waiting for all of them to fall.


End file.
